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i am

July 2, 2014

i am
the failed fruit
the futile child
who never grew
but longs to die

i am
the squandered sperm
the broken egg
who never earns
but will not beg
(for death)

i am
the damaged dream
the backwards flesh
who never seems
to do his best

i am
the bastard dirt
the homeless seed
who has no worth
that no one sees

i am
the neverend
andthe false     start
no joy within
my wrinkled heart

Regarding the crow from April of this year

June 26, 2014

in the ivy, dead, it lies,
baring bones and shriveled eyes.
a dead crow in the leaves.

in the grass it lay before.
now, it isn’t any more
than dead crow in the leaves.

tragedy had struck its wing,
now it lies, a broken thing,
a dead crow in the leaves.

i will take its bones, inter
skull and hip to mother earth—
a dead crow in her leaves.

time will show it become more,
more than feathers, drying gore.
a dead crow is the leaves.

The well wisher’s wishing well

June 15, 2014

I threw my hopes into a wishing well—
my wishes, well, they disappeared.
I lost my hopes, despite your wishing well:
well wishing won’t return them now.

Into the darkness of the wishing well
they sank as well as wishes will
when wishing well for wishes. Teardrops well
in place of wishes, dripping down.

I’m sorry for your fruitless wishing well—
I tried, I did, to wear them well,
but wishing well won’t fill a wishing well,
nor will it raise me from the ground.

My wishes, well, they disappeared—
they sank as well as wishes will.
I tried, I did, to wear them well.

Well wishing won’t return them now,
in place of wishes, dripping down,
nor will it raise me from the ground.

On the eve of the storm

June 10, 2014

On the eve of the storm,
the trees toss their displeasure—
or welcome—
I cannot be sure.
I cannot read the leaves
of their books;
for there’re books
in their leaves.

On the eve of the storm,
the air is rippling with its energy—
the air is washing warm.
Crackling? No,
but the anticipation is palpable,
and I am warm,
on the eve of the storm.

Portrait of a grocery clerk

June 2, 2014

Flaccid face, lank hair, tongue rolled against her bottom teeth and seen through the little triangle of her lips. Heavy eyelids, drooped, a darker brush than the rest. Between customers she sketches monsters on the back of a receipt. But she smiled when the old man went into the women’s washroom, and gave me a smile, too, though the day has been long for both of us.

In a meadow near Mill Lake, May 18, 2014

May 19, 2014

Between those branches, tangled tightly,
stands a crow who listens lightly—
brother crow, why should we shun thee?
Come, and sit, and harken closely.

Upon that branch where sits he calmly,
I can see his head nod sol’mnly—
brother crow, why should we fear thee?
On your branch you listen simply.

We read aloud and fill the meadow
with old words that no one’s read, though
brother crow, you listen kindly—
tell me, friend, why should we hate thee?

His eye is keen, his wingtips glisten,
won’t he stay close by to listen?
Brother crow, I wish to know thee—
please return, and sit beside me.

The end

May 12, 2014
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As of yesterday, I have written 365 poems in 365 days. To all of you who have followed along with, commented on, or liked my posts, thank you. In the future, though you will be seeing less of me, I shall not be absent entirely–when the mood strikes, I will be glad to share my continuing creations with you.

If you like, comment on this post and tell me of a favourite poem from the past 365 days; or, go back in time and comment on or read through a random selection from the project.

Again, thanks, and I shall see you soon.

Skrymir

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